


Cardigans and Chemistry

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bullying, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: In his third year of university, John isn’t expecting to do much other than keep his head in his textbooks and his feet on the rugby pitch, but that all changes when he agrees to accompany Mike to a bar one night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as something completely different, but I ended up changing my mind about it and going in a much different direction. I also realized that almost all of my stories revolve mostly around John, and so this one is more about both John and Sherlock. 
> 
> This has not been Britpicked, so apologies in advance for any Americanisms.
> 
> And a big thank you to notjustamumj on tumblr for looking this over for me! I’ve had so much fun writing this and I really hope you enjoy it! ^^

“C’mon, John, just one pint won’t hurt!” Mike said, playfully clapping John on the shoulder.

John looked down at his glass of water at the bar and gave a weak smile in Mike’s general direction. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to accompany Mike for a drink on a Thursday night.  

“I’m fine, Mike. I’ve got an early class tomorrow, remember?”

“You’ve always got a class, John. You gotta loosen up, mate; you work too much.” Mike pouted like a child, clearly very close to being fully drunk. It was true, though, John had an especially full schedule this term and seemed to be doing nothing but working as of late.

“I know, but I’ve gotta graduate somehow, yeah?” John said.

“But it was never like this,” Mike went on. “The old John would’ve been three pints in by now.”

“Well, maybe I’m not—“ John was cut off when the people on the dance floor suddenly erupted in chaotic shouts and shrieks. He whipped around to see people fleeing from the floor where there was a small group gathered around some sort of fight.

John got up from his seat and peered through the maze of bodies to see two men swinging at each other, one of them fairly large and muscular, the other thin and lanky, swinging his fists in arbitrary directions in search of his target.

“Mike, is that- do we know him?” John asked, slapping at his friend’s shoulder to get his attention.

John’s eyes were locked on the lanky man with a mop of dark, curly hair. He was sure he’d seen him around campus before, but never caught his name.

“Oh yeah!” Mike exclaimed. “I’ve got chem with him. Bloody hell, he’s gonna get beaten to a pulp out there, isn’t he?”

He is, John thought. And even though John could see one of the staff members already attempting to break things up, John couldn’t help it; adrenaline kicked in and he ran over to the dance floor and pushed his way through the crowd.

Right before the larger man was finally pulled away, he landed one solid punch to the smaller man’s nose, sending him flying backwards and crashing to the floor.  

John immediately rushed forward to kneel next to the man on the ground. Everyone else seemed to be too busy ooh-ing and aw-ing to care about whether or not he was actually okay.

John quickly helped him up and shuffled him away from the crowd.

“What’re you doing?“ the man slurred, blood already gushing from his nose and dripping down to his mouth, making him splutter and spit with a grimace.

“I’m trying to help you,” John said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re bleeding all over and it’s not sanitary, that’s why,” John snapped, leading him to the loo which was thankfully just a few steps away.

Once in the bathroom, John steered him in front of the sink so that any blood that dripped would at least be able to be washed down the drain. He ripped a handful of paper towels and held them up to the man’s face.

“Tilt your head forward a bit for me, okay?” John asked. Thankfully, the man obeyed without comment and John held the towels against his nose with a gentle pressure, cupping the back of his head with his other hand to keep him steady.

After a few minutes, John slowly lowered the tissues, checking to make sure that the bleeding had stopped.

“How do you feel?” he asked, wetting a paper towel to wipe his face down.

“Face hurts.”

John chuckled and gingerly swept the blood off of the taller man’s face. The restroom was a pocket of silence compared to the bar outside the door, making John’s ministrations feel strangely intimate.

“I’m John, by the way. John Watson. What about you?” he asked.

“It’s Sh- Sh’lock.”

“Sorry?”

“Sher-lock. S’weird, I know,” Sherlock said.

“No, it’s interesting. I like it,” John reassured him.

As he finished drying off Sherlock’s face, John was able to get a bit of a better look at him. He had definitely seen him around before, but he looked to be at least a year or two younger than him.

“You’re a med student,” Sherlock stated out of the blue.

“What? How do you know that?”

“I can tell by your…your…” Sherlock suddenly began to sway, his head threatening to make contact with the sink faucet.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on, I’ve got you,” John said as he caught Sherlock by the waist and straightened him back up again. “Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”

Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand and grimaced.

“That’s a yes. Come on.” John supported Sherlock’s wobbly frame as they walked to a stall. He set Sherlock down slowly in front of the toilet and kneeled by him, placing a hand on his back in support.

“If you need to vomit, just do it. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“M’not embarrassed, I’m—“ Sherlock stopped short and began retching rather violently into the toilet.

John rubbed Sherlock’s back soothingly as he was sick. He didn’t quite know why he felt an almost instinctive urge to care for him; he hardly knew him apart from occasionally passing him on the way to class.

“It’s all right, just let it out,” John soothed.

“I’m not—“ Sherlock coughed, “a child.”

“Right. Sorry,” John said.

Sherlock only continued to retch in response. John decided to push back Sherlock’s hair a bit when he saw that his fringe was falling over his eyes.

It was a few more minutes before Sherlock stopped being sick, and when he was finally done, he rested his forehead on the lid of the toilet seat in pure exhaustion.

“I don’t like this,” he said. His voice sounded small and miserable, and John cringed in sympathy. He picked up Sherlock’s head from where it rested with the intention of having him sit up, but instead the man simply plopped down into the crook of John’s neck as if it were his second home.

“I don’t like this feeling; s’not good,” Sherlock went on. John tried to ignore the lingering smell of vomit and carefully placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m guessing you didn’t mean to get this drunk.”

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, his curls tickling John’s neck.

“No, I’ve never…they said it was an esperiment.”

“An experiment? Who said?”

“People from uni. Said I should take lots of shots so I could be like a real scientist and get more data.”

“I’m gonna guess that these people are not your friends.”

“Mm…don’t have friends.”

John could’ve sworn his heart broke a little at Sherlock’s words. The other students had probably pressured him into drinking just so they could have a laugh at how he’d act.

“So you’re studying some sort of science, then?”

“Chemistry. I’m good at…good at esperiments.”

“I’m sure your esperiments are quite good,” John teased.

“Why’re we on the floor?” Sherlock suddenly questioned, looking around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time.

“Because you were puking for a while there and I hardly think that’s something you’d want to do standing up. We should get up now, though. Do you think you can walk?”

“’Course I can walk!” Sherlock asserted. He quickly jumped up from John’s embrace and stood before fumbling like a penguin slipping on ice.

“Yeah, no.” John grasped Sherlock’s elbow to help him balance. “I’ll help you to a cab, or did you drive here?”

“No, cab.”

“Right, then. And is there anyone at your place that can look after you?”

“My flatmate, Gavin. Or Graham. No, Gavin, yes,” Sherlock stammered.

“Okay, good. Now, let’s see if we can make it through the crowd without toppling over, yeah?”

“M’kay, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said with an almost dreamy tone.  

“Not a doctor yet,” John corrected, trying to hide his blush as they exited the stall.

“You’ll be a good one, though,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Um, thank you.”

“You’re quite fit, did you know?”

“Christ, you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m Sherlock.”

John rolled his eyes fondly. It was going to be a long trip out to the curb.

* * *

When John and Sherlock finished weaving their way through the crowd and got out to the pavement, John led Sherlock over to a bench and sat him down.  

“All right, just sit here and I’ll hail you a cab, okay?” John said, walking to the curb and holding his arm out.

“Why’re you helping me?” Sherlock asked.

John looked to him and saw that he was hugging his arms close to himself, probably to ward off the chill. John wondered if he’d had a jacket with him before.

“Because I saw that you needed help, so I helped you,” John answered simply.

“I was in a fight. How d’you know I didn’t start it?”

John shrugged. “Dunno, you don’t seem the type.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Once John saw that a cab was slowing down to pull up to the curb, he slid his thick cardigan off of his shoulders and turned back to Sherlock.

“It means that even drunk, you seem like a good person.”

“I might not be,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll take my chances, then. Here, take this; you’ve got to be freezing.” John held up the garment and Sherlock looked at it as if it were the absolute scum of the earth.

“I don’t need your pity. I’m fine,” Sherlock said, shivering.

“Humour me,” John tried. The cab was waiting now, so he hoped that Sherlock wasn’t planning on sitting and sulking for much longer.

“Come on, one sleeve at a time,” John said. He held open his cardigan and Sherlock slid his arms in with a reluctant scowl.

“This is soft,” Sherlock said, feeling the material between his fingertips.

“You can keep it; I don’t mind. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

For a moment, Sherlock looked up at John with wide, red-rimmed eyes full of curiosity, but quickly looked away and stood up, hugging John’s cardigan tighter to his thin frame.

John put his arm gently around Sherlock’s waist and helped him into the cab.

“Do I have to go?” Sherlock whined, still holding onto John. “My flat’s so _boring_! You’re not boring; I like you.”

John shot an apologetic smile to the waiting cabbie and tried not to visibly blush.

“I like you too, but you’ve gotta go home and get some rest, okay?”

“Mmh...okay,” Sherlock breathed, relaxing into his seat and releasing his grip on John.

John smiled warmly at Sherlock before bidding him goodbye. Now he was going to have to go back into the bar, find Mike, and tell him that he’d had just about enough for the evening.

* * *

The sunset was just beginning to fade when John stepped out of the lecture hall. He adjusted his hoodie and rubbed at his tired eyes as he walked, looking forward to going back to his flat and enjoying a cup of tea in front of the telly before starting any actual work.

John was startled out of his thoughts when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw the man from last night, Sherlock, staring at him and holding out the cardigan John had given him.

“I believe this is yours,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, um, thank you,” John said, taking it out of his outstretched hand. “You really could’ve kept it, you know, I didn’t mind.”

“Oatmeal really isn’t my colour.”

John chuckled softly. “Right, yeah.”

“Good. That’s settled, then,” Sherlock said before turning on his heel and rushing back the way he came.

“Hang on, wait!” John shouted after him.

Sherlock stopped, making a point to loudly stomp his shoes onto the pavement as he turned back to face John.

“Yes?”

“Are you, I dunno, are you…okay?” John asked. He couldn’t help but notice the large, plum-coloured bruise that painted Sherlock’s cheek.

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Well, you did get socked in the face less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Yes, and I’m all better now. May I go?”

“Christ, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” John said.

“Of course you did. You always have to make sure everyone is all right, yes? Always have to protect people, nurture them, be the one to save the day? Well, please do stop boring me with the caretaker act and believe me when I tell you that I am perfectly fine and I do not need your help.”

John pursed his lips and fiddled absently with the garment in his hands.

“Right, okay,” he said.

Sherlock huffed and looked away. “Fine. Thank you for your help last night. And your hideous jumper.”

“You can borrow it anytime,” John joked weakly. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. See you around, I guess.” John nodded stiffly and walked away, wondering why Sherlock’s words had stung quite so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always, comments are more than welcome! 
> 
> This story is complete and I'll be posting a new chapter every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday :)


	2. Chapter 2

John made his way to the library after class, intent on finally getting started on the biology report that was due in just a few days and had been burning a hole in his consciousness for a good week.

He stepped inside the library and felt the familiar hush of the world around him; the only sounds coming from the faint tapping of fingers on keys and the quiet shuffle of pages turning. The sun had gone down whilst John was in class and the soft glow of scattered desk lamps gave the space an air of comfort and warmth that he always appreciated after hours in a lecture hall.

John headed towards his usual table near the back and noticed someone already sitting there. As he walked closer, John immediately recognized the head of dark curls practically buried in a book, one hand holding the book open and one hand furiously scribbling down notes.

It had been a few days since John had seen Sherlock, and he couldn’t deny that he was still interested in getting to know him, despite Sherlock stubbornly refusing his help.

John approached the table slowly and slid his bag off his shoulder, sitting down across from Sherlock without the other man so much as glancing up at him.

“We meet again,” John said teasingly.

Sherlock lifted his gaze for a mere millisecond before reverting back down to his notes.

“Are you following me now?” Sherlock grumbled.

“I come here every Tuesday, mate. So really I should be asking you if you’re following me.”

“I’m not.”

“Good to know,” John quipped.

He watched Sherlock carefully for a moment to see if he would tell him to kindly find a seat elsewhere, but it seemed that Sherlock either didn’t mind or was too absorbed in his notes to even care. John could see that the bruise on Sherlock’s cheek had gone down significantly, leaving only a small, washed out splotch of colour just underneath his eye. He was glad to see him looking better, even if Sherlock didn’t seem to care much for John’s concern.

Still eyeing him warily, John pulled out his notebook and papers and set them in front of him. He looked across the table and scanned the pages of the book Sherlock was currently ensconced in, finding it to be advanced chemistry of some sort.

“Chemistry?” John asked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

“You revising?”

“I never revise.”

“Sorry?”

“I never revise. Don’t need to. I could pass this class in my sleep.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“My own experiments.”

“Oh, right,” John said. “You did say something about doing experiments at the bar the other night. When you were done…spilling your guts, anyway.”

Sherlock paused in his note-taking for a moment. “Did I?”

“You did, yeah. Said you were good at them.”

“I am,” Sherlock said, returning to his frantic scribbling.

John licked his lips in thought and folded his arms on the table, leaning in slightly to speak quieter.

“You also said that some people had sort of…pressured you into drinking, right? That they said it was an experiment.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Do these people do stuff like that often?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “John, as I said before, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I do not need you to look out for me like some kind of student-cum-vigilante.”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. But you know, if anyone’s ever bothering you, you could always—“

“John.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” John said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Any other information I cared to share with you in my drunken state?”

John opened his mouth to answer but quickly closed it, swallowing nervously as he thought of how Sherlock had shamelessly flirted with him. He knew that it likely hadn’t meant anything, though, so he figured that Sherlock would appreciate it if he left that bit out.

“Er, you told me that I was a med student,” John said. “When we were in the loo. But you never finished telling me how you knew that.”

“I would assume that it’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

At this, Sherlock stopped writing and slapped his pen down dramatically on the table. He lifted his head to finally look John in the eye and took a deep breath.

“You rushed towards an ongoing bar fight in order to help me, despite me being a complete stranger. You then helped me into the loo where you calmly and efficiently dealt with my bloody nose in the way one is actually meant to handle a bloody nose, as most people assume you’re meant to tip your head backwards when it’s in fact the opposite.

The rest is a little bit blurry but it was clear by your eagerness to help, your knowledge on how to handle the situation, and your calm bedside manner that you were either a university student with a martyr complex or someone studying medicine. Or both,” Sherlock finished, picking up his pen again and immediately getting back to work.

“That’s…amazing,” John breathed.

“Is it?”

“Yes, that’s extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock seemed almost surprised at the sound.

“Well, I’ve got some bio work to do,” John said. “Mind if I sit here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

John smiled.

* * *

Most students had long gone home by the time John and Sherlock walked out of the library, leaving empty shells of the halls and classrooms that they passed on their way. They had ended up talking for hours, John easily pushing his work to the side in favour of listening to Sherlock tell him more about his experiments.

The lampposts and streetlights lit up the otherwise inky black sky as they walked down the pavement alongside the building, leaves crunching under their feet as they went.

“Well, that was a productive evening, yeah?” John joked.

“For me, yes. You were the one who talked me through the biology report that you haven’t actually written yet.”

“Oi, I’ve got it all planned out. That’s like half the battle right there,” John reasoned.

“If you say so.”

John laughed and shoved Sherlock playfully, feeling an almost childlike glee that he’d forgotten was even possible to feel.

As their laughter died down, John slowed his pace and looked up at Sherlock.

“Hey, er, would you maybe want to hang out sometime? Outside of school, I mean.” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why?”

“To…hang out?”

“Yes, but why?”

John shrugged, feeling heat steadily rising in his cheeks. “I dunno, just to spend time together. Maybe get a coffee or something. Or whatever you’d want to do.”

Sherlock appeared lost in thought for a moment before furrowing his brow and frowning slightly.

“John,” he said hesitantly, “you should know that while I’m flattered, I’m not exactly looking for—“

“No, no, that’s not what I’m asking,” John rushed out, shaking his head fervently.

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah. So, what do you say, then?”

“I suppose that would be…tolerable,” Sherlock settled on.

“Good,” John laughed. “So, coffee? We could meet at Hudson’s tomorrow if you wanted.”

“Yes, I would…I would like that.”

* * *

John rubbed his hands together to ward off the chill as he made his way through the biting cold to Hudson’s café, the overcast sky shrouding all the shops and people in a muted, uniform grey.

John had to admit that he was actually a little nervous about seeing Sherlock. He had still seemed slightly guarded during their conversation at the library, and so although John genuinely enjoyed Sherlock’s company and wanted to spend more time with him, he couldn’t say for sure whether or not Sherlock felt the same about him.

As he approached the café, John saw Sherlock’s slightly silhouetted figure through the foggy glass and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight, his nerves all seeming to gather in his chest.

Steeling himself, John opened the door and stepped inside, grateful for the warmth that greeted him. The smell of coffee, the dark hardwood floors, and the rickety chairs and tables that littered the space gave John a much welcomed feeling of calm.

He made his way over to the table by the large window where Sherlock sat, his eyes glued to the phone in his palm. He was dressed in a deep red button-up and a thin black cardigan, looking casual but still put-together.

“Hey,” John greeted.

Sherlock looked up sharply from his phone as if only just remembering that he was in fact in a public place with other human beings.

“Ah, John. Fell asleep in psychology, did you?”

“What? I didn’t- how—“ John sputtered as he slid off his coat and sat down.

“You mentioned that you’d be meeting me after your psychology class, and now here you are with bags under your eyes that are clearly more pronounced and a slight rasp to your voice that one typically acquires upon just waking up.”

John grinned and shook his head in disbelief. “Yes, all right, I fell asleep in psych. But Christ, my professor is boring. He just drones on and on; I don’t know how people stand it.”

“You have Professor Garrick, then?”

“Don’t tell me you have him too.”

“Every Monday and Wednesday evening. It’s the only sleep I get all week.”

“Perfectly understandable.” John laughed, making himself more comfortable in his seat and noticing how quickly he felt at ease in Sherlock’s presence.

“I do hope you realize that the only reason I agreed to come here is for the scones,” Sherlock said.

“Mm.” John nodded. “Mrs. Hudson does do incredible scones.”

Just then, John noticed Mrs. Hudson herself out of the corner of his eye, making her way to them with coffee pot in hand and a floral apron tied around her waist.

“Oh, Sherlock, there you are,” she said as she approached the table. “You weren’t here this morning; is everything all right?” she asked in a whisper, leaning closer to Sherlock.

“I’m quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. I knew I’d be meeting John here this afternoon, so I thought I’d save my caffeine and sugar intake until then.”

Mrs. Hudson turned to John and beamed at him.

“Oh! You’re a friend of Sherlock’s, then?”

“Er, yes,” John said, glancing nervously at Sherlock. “Sorry, you two know each other?” he asked.

“I helped Mrs. Hudson out with something a while back,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

“He tracked down the man that was stealing from my register; turns out it was my ex-husband.”

“Got him arrested,” Sherlock said.

“And it was a bloody good thing you did, too. That man was doing a lot more than petty theft, I’ll tell you.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” John said.

“It was textbook,” Sherlock corrected.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, clapping her hands together, “all that aside, how about I get you boys some coffee? But just this once, mind, I’m not your waitress.”

“Black. Two sugars,” Sherlock said.

“And um, just tea for me, actually,” John said.

“Lovely. I’ll be right back,” Mrs. Hudson said as she turned and headed toward the back of the restaurant.

“And one of those honey-flavoured scones, if you have them,” Sherlock called after her.

“Not your waitress!” Mrs. Hudson shouted over her shoulder.

John smirked and looked back across the table at Sherlock.

“So, is that something you do often?” he asked.

“What?”

“I dunno, solve crimes for people?”

“Occasionally, yes. The police in this city are remarkably stupid,” Sherlock said.

“And they just, what, let you pop on over to a crime scene whenever you fancy?”

“Let me, no. Try to stop me, yes.”

”But I thought you were studying chemistry,” John said. “Why not just go out for the police force?”

Sherlock made a noise of disapproval and shook his head. “Too many rules and regulations,” he said. “I just want to get to the puzzle, John, to really put my mind to use, not sit at a desk and fill out paperwork.”

“You’d be good at it, though. With the way you can figure things out just by looking at people.”

“Making deductions, you mean?”

“Yeah, like how you figured out I was a med student. It’s really incredible.”

“So you’ve said.” Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and looked out the window. “I’m not sure yet what I want to do. Who knows, I might just invent my own job if nothing appeals to me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” John teased.

“And what about yourself?” Sherlock asked. “Any definitive plans? Aside from being a doctor, obviously.”

“Yeah, I suppose you already knew that,” John said. “I actually thought about joining the army at one point, but, well.” He frowned.

“Well what?”

“Well, I was gonna join to help pay for uni, but then I got a scholarship here, so it wasn’t really an issue anymore.”

“But you still have an interest in it, the army.”

“I think so, yeah. I’m not sure. We’ll see how things go. Hell, maybe if none of it works out I’ll just be a rugby player,” John laughed.

“Certainly a viable option.”

Sherlock’s phone suddenly buzzed on the table and he let out a long, exasperated sigh upon looking at the screen.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he grumbled, picking up his phone and pounding his fingers into the keys as if the device had personally offended him.

“Who’s that?” John asked.

“My brother. He’s being exceptionally annoying.”

“You have a brother?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Mycroft seems to think that everything I do somehow constitutes as his business.”

John hummed in understanding. “Bit overprotective, is he?”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow as he continued to text.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson chirped, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. “Coffee for you, tea for you,” she said, setting the heavy ceramic mugs down in front of them. “And your scones, Sherlock. I brought one for John as well; it’s on the house.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly still engrossed in whatever argument he was having with his brother.

“Yes, thank you,” John added.

“Well, you two enjoy. It was so nice to meet you, John,” Mrs. Hudson said, giving his shoulder a small squeeze before walking away.

John waited until Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

“Here, let me see,” John said, holding his hand out and motioning to Sherlock’s phone.

Sherlock eyed John for a moment before slowly handing it over to him. It took John only a few seconds to press a button or two before he handed it back to Sherlock.

“There we go,” he said.

Sherlock took the phone back and examined it suspiciously, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what John had done.

“You’ve turned it off,” Sherlock said, staring at it as if wondering why he had never thought to do that before.

“Yep,” John said. He reached out to the plate of scones in the middle of the table and broke off a small piece. “These really are good,” he said as he munched on the pastry. “I’ve never tried these ones before.”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in small smile as he set his phone aside and reached out to take a piece for himself as well.

“They’re my favourite,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

John had spent the entire rest of the afternoon at the café with Sherlock. They had talked about everything from Sherlock’s interfering brother to John’s overly strict rugby coach, and John had only left when he realized that the sky outside was beginning to darken, and that biology report of his was not going to finish itself.

Now John was on his way back to his flat, feeling lighter despite the heavy books in his bag weighing him down and a residual smile that wouldn’t seem to fade from his face.

After almost getting his rusted key jammed in the lock for the umpteenth time, John pushed open the ancient door to his flat and made his way up the steps. He could hear the muffled din of the television through the walls which could only mean that Mike was in and was likely in the middle of one of those trashy dramas he was so fond of.

“Evening,” John called as he walked in, tossing his bag down onto the floor as soon as he entered the sitting room. Mike was slumped across the sofa, his glasses askew and his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

“Cor, you’re back late,” Mike said, stretching to pick up the remote from the coffee table and pausing the TV. “It went well, then?” he asked.

“What did?”

“Your date,” Mike said. “You said you were meeting someone for coffee.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a date,” John said, laughing nervously. “I was just hanging out with Sherlock.”

“Who?”

“That kid from your chem class who got in a fight at the bar last week.”

“Oh, right!” Mike said, pointing a victorious finger in the air. “What was he doing fighting a bloke twice his size, anyway?”

John padded over to the small kitchen and rooted around in the fridge in search of a proper dinner, finding nothing but a disappointing amount of empty shelf space.

“Apparently Sherlock had made some kind of…deduction about the man cheating on his girlfriend, which I don’t think he took very well,” he said. He settled on some slightly dodgy leftover takeaway and sat himself down at the table, listening as Mike pushed himself up from the sofa and joined him in the kitchen.

“Ah, he’s always doing that,” Mike said.               

“What, making deductions?”

“You should hear him in class; always correcting the professor, telling if people had been shagging the night before, that sort of thing. So you two are friends now, then?”

John took a bite of his definitely stale eggroll and thought for a moment.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said.

Mike sat down at the table and shot him a smug smile.

“You like him?” he asked.

“I do, yeah,” John said, trying to hide his grin.

“Do you like him in…that way?” Mike asked slowly.

“What? Mike, no, it’s not- I don’t—“ John spluttered.

“Hey, it’s all fine by me, remember?”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I know, but I’d really rather not think about all that stuff right now. Especially after- well, y’know.”

“Yeah, sorry, mate,” Mike said. “Well, you know where I am if you need me. If you ever need to talk or, y’know, gush about his eyes—“

“I will actually kill you,” John said, swatting Mike’s arm with a stray takeaway menu. “Go watch your crap telly.”

Mike chuckled and grabbed a beer from the fridge before returning to his post on the sofa. John laughed quietly to himself and stared blankly at the scuffed up wood of the table in front of him. He certainly had a lot more to think about tonight than finishing an essay.

* * *

John had just left his last lecture for the day and was on his way back to his flat to get a bit of revising in before rugby practice when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He shuffled his books to his other arm and fished out his phone to find a text from an unfamiliar number.

_Meet me at the library if convenient. SH_

John squinted at the message as he walked, figuring that the person must have texted the wrong number, and he was just about to reply when another message came through.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John frowned in confusion for a moment before typing out a reply.

_Who is this?_

The response was almost instant.

_Sherlock Holmes. Do keep up. SH_

At this, John couldn’t seem to contain his smile.

_How did you get my number?_

_Irrelevant. Will you come? SH_

John let out a short laugh and smirked down at his phone. Practice wasn’t for another few hours, and he could always do some revising afterwards, so he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad if he were to go see what Sherlock was up to instead.

_On my way._

* * *

When John found Sherlock in the library, he was sat at a table in the back with a small mountain of books and papers engulfing the laptop that he was furiously typing away at.

John smiled to himself and made his way over. He hadn’t even stepped foot in front of the table before Sherlock was speaking to him.

“John, there you are. I need you to—“

“Oi, let me sit down first, yeah?” John said. He set his books down on the only space that was devoid of papers and pulled his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the chair before sitting down. “Right. What’s so urgent, then?”

“I need you to get this book for me, the one on the paper there,” Sherlock said, pointing absentmindedly to a scrap piece of paper with a title scribbled on it, his eyes still fixed on the computer screen.

John looked to the piece of paper in front of him and stared blankly at it for a moment, his mouth hanging open in quiet disbelief.  

“You brought me here…to get you a book,” John said.

“Yes, the one on the paper,” Sherlock repeated, tapping an impatient finger on it.

“Sherlock, you’re _in_ the library, I was the other side of campus!”

Sherlock huffed and finally looked away from his screen. “Well I can hardly risk getting up and leaving all of my things out for people to steal at their leisure,” he said.

“You really think that lowly of your fellow students?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” John sighed, “how about _you_ go get the book, and I’ll watch your things. Or do you reckon I’ll nick all your biros while you’re gone?”

Sherlock looked back and forth between John and his belongings for a moment before pouting much like a small child. “I’ll be right back,” he grumbled.

John smiled fondly as he watched Sherlock stalk grumpily past the bookshelves in his haste. He looked back to the table and glanced around at all the books and papers taking up half the space and wondered what it was Sherlock was experimenting on. And he sincerely hoped that fetching a book wasn’t actually the only reason Sherlock asked him there.

It was a few more minutes before Sherlock returned, book in hand. He set it down victoriously atop his notes and returned to his seat.

“Got it,” he said.

“And look, everything’s still safe and sound,” John said, gesturing to Sherlock’s things all still in their place.

“Yes, well, only because you were sitting here,” Sherlock reasoned.

“Yeah, right.” John chuckled. He fiddled absently with a stray pencil for a moment before looking back to Sherlock, who was already honed in on his screen and typing at breakneck speed. “Is that, um, is that all you needed me for?”

“What?” Sherlock turned to him, a sudden look of uncertainty on his face. “Oh, um, no, I—“ he stammered, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You could stay, if you like.”

Glad that Sherlock seemed to want him there for more than just book retrieval, John scooted his chair a little closer to him and leaned over to take a peek at his computer screen.

“So, what’s all this, then?” he asked.

* * *

The late afternoon sun shone through the large paned windows of the library, shrouding everything in a pale golden light as John and Sherlock continued to work. Sherlock had told John all about his experiment on some local foliage, showing him his notes and spreadsheets, and John had actually started his revising, finding Sherlock to be an unexpectedly helpful study partner.

Now John was frowning down at his notebook page overflowing with colour-coded scribbles, looking over the information for approximately the fiftieth time. He did know the material, practically by heart at this point, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel like if he stopped revising, everything he knew would suddenly fall right out of his head.

“You’re overthinking,” Sherlock said, knocking John out of his trance-like state.

“Hm?”

“You’re overthinking, John. You do in fact know what you’re doing, and I believe the thousand or so flash cards we just went through can attest to that.”

“I know, but you can never be too sure, yeah?”

“I’m sure that you’ll do perfectly fine,” Sherlock said.

“That’s easy for you to say, Mister I-can-memorize-anything-after-looking-at-it-once.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ve told you, John, I use a specific memory technique in order to ensure that all important information is kept neatly organized for ease of access at any given time.”

“Yes, your ’mind castle’…thing.”

“Palace, John, it’s a palace.”

“Of course it is,” John teased. “And I’ll just be over here in my tiny Mind Flat where there’s never enough room for everything.”

“I can teach you the technique, you know. It’s quite simple, really, all you have to do is- Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sherlock cursed under his breath as his phone alerted him to a text. He swiped his phone roughly from off the table and began stabbing away at the keys as he responded.  

“Your brother still bothering you?” John asked.

“Always,” Sherlock said. He finished up his text before turning to John and quickly eyeing him up and down. “But I’m sure you know what that’s like,” he said, his voice a little quieter.

“What do you mean?” John asked, his eyes immediately darting up from his notes.

“You’ve got an older sibling as well, yes? One that you don’t get along with.”

John squared his jaw and clenched his fist around the pencil in his hand.

“How do you know that?” he asked. He knew that Sherlock had likely just deduced it somehow, but something in his blood still ran cold at Sherlock’s words.

“Your jacket,” Sherlock said, pointing the garment draped carelessly behind John.

“My jacket?” John turned around to face it, finding nothing in particular that would’ve given away his relationship with his sibling.

“I can see the tag from here; it says ‘Harry’ in permanent marker,” Sherlock explained, keeping his voice low as if he could tell that he’d hit a sensitive subject. “And Harry could be anyone, of course; a cousin, an uncle, you could’ve gotten the jacket at a charity shop, for all I know. But it’s not been very well taken care of; the fibers on the tag are fraying, there’s small rips around the shoulder seam and multiple stains on the lapel.

And the jacket itself isn’t even that old; I’ve seen that style in shops only about a year ago, and yet it already has that much wear and tear? You wouldn’t treat an item of clothing like that let alone own something in such a state, and yet you keep it; sentiment. It’s been given to you by a close family member, my guess would be an older brother seeing as how it’s slightly too big for you.”

“But how can you possibly know that we don’t get along?” John blurted out.

“Because you take care of your things, John. Look at your bag, your shoes, even that cardigan you lent me at the bar that night. All perfectly neat. Older items, yes, but well cared-for. So, you take care of your things, your brother doesn’t. He’s irresponsible, careless, perhaps a little reckless, whereas you are almost the complete opposite. And I can’t imagine that two people with such vastly different ways of going about life would have an easy time in each other’s company.”

“Wow, that’s…yeah.” John sighed. “Me and Harry don’t get on, never have. She’s always been a bit of a wild card.”

“She?”

“Oh, yeah. Harry’s my sister.”

“Sister! There’s always something,” Sherlock complained.

“Well, I’d actually rather not talk about—“ John started, but was cut off when the alarm on his phone started to go off. “Shit, practice starts in ten minutes,” he said, scooping his things into his bag in a flurry before practically jumping out of his chair. “Thanks for, y’know, helping me revise and everything,” he said as he slid his jacket back on.

“Of course. And I suppose I should thank you for guarding my things,” Sherlock said.

“Anytime, yeah.” John laughed. “Hey, I’ve got a match on Monday; you should come,” he said.

“What, and watch two groups of people behave like wild animals in pursuit of an inanimate object?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll consider it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll always have a soft spot for matchmaker Mike lol. Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

A mottled grey sky stretched over the rugby pitch as John stood on the sidelines with his teammates as they prepared for the game ahead. His coach was busy barking off last minute instructions, but John was only vaguely listening as he absentmindedly stretched his limbs and scanned through the crowd of people all gathered in the stands.

John hadn’t seen Sherlock since he met him in the library a few days ago and he still wasn’t sure whether or not Sherlock had decided to come to the game. Now John’s eyes were flitting through the countless faces gathered around the field, desperately trying to spot the familiar shock of dark brown curls.

“All right, mate?” came a voice to John’s right. He whipped around to see Greg Lestrade, a student a year his senior with a head of brown hair already greying slightly and a soft, amicable smile. Greg had been a new addition the team that year, so he’d only more recently been getting to know him.

“What? Oh, yeah, fine,” John said distractedly.

Greg gave him a reassuring pat on the back and sidled up next to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and squinted at the opposing team across the pitch.

“Think we’ll beat ‘em?” Greg asked.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, if Wilkes can actually stick to the plan this time,” John said.

“Let’s hope so.” Greg sighed and turned around, absently eyeing up the people in the stands. “Bloody hell, is that _Sherlock_?” he exclaimed.

John immediately turned around and followed Greg’s line of sight, and there he could see Sherlock, swallowed up in an oversized black hoodie and sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest and chin tucked in between his legs, clearly feeling somewhat out of place.

John felt a burst of warmth in his chest upon seeing Sherlock, but held back his grin as he turned to face Greg.

“You know him?” John asked.

“’Course I know him; he’s my flatmate,” Greg said.

John’s jaw dropped a little in surprise. “Wait, _you’re_ Sherlock’s flatmate?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He said he lived with someone called Gavin.”

Greg scoffed. “That’s ‘cause the git can never be arsed to remember my name. Hell, most of the time he can’t even be arsed to remember I live there. How do _you_ know him?”

“Oh, er, we met at a bar last week- long story,” John said. “I asked if he wanted to come to a match the other day.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised he came, to be honest.”

John bit his lip and took another look at Sherlock in the crowd.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

* * *

In the end, John’s team had lost by just a few measly points, and while the rest of his teammates stood around kicking their gym bags and bemoaning their loss, John couldn’t find it in him to feel bad, because it had been one of the most enjoyable games he’d played since he’d first started back in secondary school.  

John hadn’t realized how it would feel to have someone who he cared about watch him play. He had caught himself looking to the stands multiple times throughout the game, and even though he hadn’t even been able to properly see Sherlock, just knowing that he was there had rekindled something in Johns’ chest and he played with a passion that he hadn’t done in years.

Now John stood on the sidelines and watched as the crowd slowly dismantled and trickled down the stands, keeping an eye on Sherlock as he attempted to make his way out of the throng of people. Once he had successfully caught Sherlock’s eye, John quickly put his arm up to get his attention and waved him over.

Sherlock picked up his pace upon seeing John and soon joined him at the end of the pitch. There was a slight flush in Sherlock’s cheeks and nose from the cold that John couldn’t help but find oddly endearing, but he quickly pushed those thoughts aside.

“So, what did you think?” John asked, bouncing eagerly on his heels.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and nodded approvingly. “Surprisingly violent,” he said.

“So you enjoyed it, then?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock smirked.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come, actually. Greg was pretty surprised to see you here, too,” John told him.

“Who?”

“Greg, your flatmate? A bit taller than me, short hair, warm brown eyes?”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that he partook in this barbaric sport, as well.”

“You just said you liked it!” John teased.

“I never said that.”

John laughed. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you—“

“Watson!” someone called from behind John.

John’s smile quickly fell from his face when he turned to see Sebastian Wilkes making his way toward them.

“Sorry,” John murmured, looking to Sherlock apologetically.

“Watson!” Sebastian repeated. “We’re all going down to the pub. You coming?” he asked.

“Oh, er, I really don’t think—“

“Oi, who let the freak in?” Sebastian laughed, looking to Sherlock with a greasy smile to match his greasy black hair.

John opened his mouth to retort but stopped when he saw Sherlock simply roll his eyes and let out a tired sigh.

“Afternoon, Sebastian,” Sherlock said.

“Didn’t know you liked sport, unless you just came down here to stare at a bunch of blokes’ arses, eh?”

“Seb!” John chided.

“What? It’s not my fault he’s a bloody pervert.”

“He’s not a pervert!” John shouted, having no idea where this sudden wellspring of anger had come from.

“How would you know?” Seb sneered, a smug grin plastered on his face. “What, have you gone gay as well? You’re on his team now, are you?” he goaded.

John felt as if all of the blood had suddenly drained from his face. He swallowed nervously and clenched his fists at his sides, his words caught tight in his throat.

It wasn’t until John heard the sound of Sherlock walking away that he snapped out of his sudden haze.

“Sherlock!” John called as Sherlock stormed off of the field. “Sherlock, wait!”

* * *

John was quickly running out of breath as he tried to keep up with Sherlock, who only continued to speed down the pavement ahead of him.

“Sherlock!” John called after him.

Seeing that Sherlock had no intention of slowing down at any point, John let out an exasperated huff and sped up to close the remaining distance between them.

“Sherlock, stop,” John pleaded, clawing weakly at Sherlock’s sleeve.

Sherlock finally deigned to slow down and allow John to walk next to him, though he continued to look straight ahead as he walked.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“Look, don’t listen to Seb. He’s an arsehole,” John said.

“I’d gathered that.”

John groaned in frustration, wishing that Sherlock would actually look at him instead of subtly trying to inch ahead of him.

“Does he always talk to you like that?” John pressed. “I mean I knew he was a prick but I didn’t think he sank that low.”

“Yes, we have what you might call a difficult relationship,” Sherlock said, sarcasm laced in his voice.

John held back anything he was about to say and really thought about Sherlock’s words for a moment. He’d never really interacted with Seb outside of rugby, and he had no idea how long he’d been treating Sherlock like this, or how often.

“Hang on,” John said, realization dawning on him, “it was him, wasn’t it? Him and his cronies, the ones who got you stupidly drunk that night.”

“Yes, congratulations, you’ve found your culprit. Happy?”

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“It’s not important. He’s obviously just taking out all of his own insecurities on me.”

“That’s no excuse,” John argued.

“I’m not saying it is; I’m saying that he’s boring and not worth my time.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, you don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t bother you. Just because you know why he acts that way doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be upset by it.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Sherlock stopped short and turned sharply on his heel, his face suddenly inches from John’s. “Why do you always insist on appointing yourself the role of my personal therapist?” he seethed.

John backed away slightly but still held Sherlock’s gaze as he spoke.

“I’m not trying to be your therapist, Sherlock; I’m trying to be your friend.”

At John’s words, Sherlock’s entire demeanor seemed to melt off of him. His eyes flickered back and forth as if searching John’s face for evidence of a lie.

“Right.” Sherlock nodded minutely and picked his head back up. “Apologies,” he said quietly.

“It’s fine,” John said. He took a deep breath and relaxed his stance. “It’s all…fine.”

For a moment, he and Sherlock stood silently in the middle of the pavement as people walked by and got on with their days. John hoped they hadn’t made much of a scene.

“Dinner?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

“Sorry?”

“Dinner. There’s a Thai place just up the street. You’re probably hungry after your match.”

John grinned. “Yeah, starving.”

* * *

John had never been to the Thai place that Sherlock had suggested, which he apparently could tell the quality of by the bottom third of the door handle, though John suspected that that particular deduction may have been a bit of a stretch.

They had ordered their food and gone back to John’s flat to eat so that John could change out of his filthy rugby uniform and wash off the dried mud still clinging to his arms and legs.

“Finally,” John said as he walked out of his bathroom, clad in a fresh set of clothes and scrubbing a damp flannel over his face and hair. “I swear I had dirt _in_ my ear.”

“Yet another reason to avoid the sport altogether,” Sherlock said. He was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table where they’d set down their containers of food, absently picking at his dish.

“Comes with the territory, I guess.” John shrugged. He tossed the flannel carelessly onto the worktop in the kitchen before padding into the sitting room. “Budge over,” he said as he sat down next to Sherlock and scooted his way in front of the table.

John happily tucked into his meal and proceeded to give Sherlock an enthusiastic play by play of his rugby match in between bites of shrimp and noodle. Sherlock told him that one of the players on the other team had had a weak knee and that one of them had recently gotten over an ankle injury of some kind, which was of little use now that the game was over, but was still interesting to hear how Sherlock had worked the information out.

After a while of talking rugby and filling up their empty stomachs, their voices died down and the flat soon grew quiet; the only sounds coming from the soft clinking of dishware.

“Hey, um, sorry about Seb, by the way,” John said, his voice low. “I really didn’t think he’d say any of that stuff.”

Sherlock stopped his absentminded twirling of his fork and stared resolutely at his plate. “It was out of your control,” he said.

“Right, yeah,” John murmured.  

“And yes, I am,” Sherlock added.

“You’re what?”

“Gay. If you were wondering if what Sebastian said was true, it is.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business, really.”

Sherlock kept his eyes cast downward as he spoke. “I thought I might get that out in the open now in case you disapprove of such things.”

“What? God, no, of course not. That’s totally fine, more than fine,” John reassured.

“Good.”

“I mean, hell, I’m—“ John stopped himself, but the words were already out of his mouth before he could even think.

“You’re…?”

John opened and closed his mouth uselessly as he tried to think of what to say. He hadn’t planned on talking about this sort of thing with Sherlock, in fact he hadn’t planned on talking about it with anyone, really, but he found himself suddenly wanting to.

“I was just going to say that I, erm, that I also…“ John trailed off, wondering why it was so difficult to form a coherent sentence all of a sudden.

“You don’t have to tell me anything either, John,” Sherlock said.

“No, I want to.” He took a deep, steadying breath and picked his chin up. “What I’m trying to say is that I, er, I like blokes, as well. Though I also like women, so I guess that makes me bisexual. I mean, I _am_ bisexual, is what I meant to say,” he rambled.

“But you’re not comfortable with it,” Sherlock blurted out. He quickly shook his head as if mentally chastising himself. “No, sorry, that was…not good.”

“Bit not good, yeah,” John agreed. “You’re right, though. I only really came to terms with it this year. Decided to tell my family, as well, which was a bloody disaster.”

“They didn’t approve, I take it.”

“How’d you guess?” John laughed bitterly. “Yeah, they weren’t too happy about it, to say the least.”

“Even Harry?”

John winced slightly. “She pretty much already knew, so I thought she’d be fine with it, but she was drunk when I told her, so I got to hear how she really felt.”

“What did she say?” Sherlock asked, watching John closely as if to make sure he wasn’t overstepping.

John swallowed hard, attempting to ease the unexpected tightness in his throat. He’d never actually said the words out loud; even Mike only knew that there had been some kind of fight with Harry, but he didn’t know the details.  

“She called me a coward,” John said, his voice shaking lightly. “She said that the only reason I hadn’t come out sooner was because I saw how bad she had it after she came out. She was right. My parents treated her like shit, people at school gave her hell; of course I didn’t want to go through that. I was scared,” John admitted. “But she also thinks I didn’t say anything just so that I could be the ‘good son,’ the golden boy, you know? She thinks my staying in the closet was somehow…throwing her under the bus.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No, but she does a damn good job of making me feel like it was. I mean, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should’ve—“

“John, you were under no obligation to tell anyone.”

“I know. I tried to tell her that, but she wouldn’t listen. We haven’t really spoken since.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure we’ll work it out. Eventually.” John sighed. “But what about you? How does your family feel about everything? If you want to tell me, that is.”

Sherlock leaned his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, my family couldn’t give a toss who I sleep with. In fact I’m fairly certain my parents knew about me before I did,” he said.

“Hm. Lucky sod,” John joked. He folded his legs up against his chest and rested his arms on his knees, feeling strangely relaxed despite the subject at hand. “And what about, er, relationships? Have you ever had any…boyfriends, or anything?”

“Not really my area,” Sherlock said.

“What, boyfriends?”

“Relationships.”

“Oh,” John said. “Not even friends?” he asked carefully, thinking back to moment at the bar when Sherlock had admitted to him that he hadn’t had any friends.

“No, none of those.”

“Come on, Sherlock, that can’t be true,” John said, almost to himself. A part of him simply didn’t want to think about Sherlock being alone, didn’t want to imagine him feeling lonely or isolated.

“Please, John,” Sherlock scoffed. “People don’t befriend the freak genius because they want to; they do it to get a free biochemistry tutor.”

“You’re not a freak,” John stated.

“What?”

“You’re not a freak, Sherlock.”

“You haven’t known me long enough."

“No, but I know you well enough."

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly and turned away. “You think you do.”

“I know I do.”

“You’re very stubborn.”

“And you’re not a freak,” John insisted. He uncurled from his position and began tidying up their dirtied utensils and empty takeaway containers. “Come on, let’s get all this cleaned up and then we can watch crime shows while you point out all the mistakes, yeah?”

“If you insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit less fluffy than the last chapter, but I hope you enjoyed! As always, thanks so much for reading! ^^


	5. Chapter 5

John was sitting in the lecture hall, leaning back against the creaky wooden seat and twirling a pencil in his hand. He was only half listening as his professor continued to repeat the same few points he’d made earlier but in a slightly different way.

John was just beginning to contemplate the shape of the gum stuck to the back of one of the chairs when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He furrowed his brow in confusion, wondering who would be texting him considering his friends all knew he was in class.

He pulled out his phone and held it off to the side of his thigh, trying to not make it too obvious that his attention was elsewhere. Once John saw who the message was from, he eagerly opened it and tried to keep his laughter under his breath.

_Bored. SH_

Of course Sherlock would text him in the middle of the day just to say that he was bored. John wouldn’t expect anything less at this point, though he didn’t think he’d want it any other way, either.

_And what would you like me to do about that?_

_Entertain me. SH_

John tried not to audibly scoff.

_I’m in class._

_That’s no excuse. SH_

_Don’t you have any work to do?_

_Finished it. SH_

_Any experiments to work on?_

_Finished them. I’m bored, John! SH_

John did let a small chuckle escape, then, earning him a disapproving glance from the girl sitting next to him. He tried to think of something Sherlock could do to relieve his boredom, and if he weren’t otherwise occupied, John would have suggested they hang out for a bit. Although, John thought, his lecture would be over in just another twenty minutes, and he really didn’t have much else on for the rest of the day.

John typed out a message and hesitated for a moment before hitting send.

_I could come over after class if you want?_

John had never actually been to Sherlock’s flat before, and he was admittedly a little curious as to what Sherlock’s place looked like, mainly wondering whether or not there were various experiments bubbling away all over the flat.

Another minute or two had passed before John realized that Sherlock hadn’t actually responded. He checked his phone again just to be sure, but there was nothing.

John wondered if he’d overstepped, if Sherlock was for some reason uncomfortable with him coming over, and his chest was just beginning to stir with mild panic when his phone buzzed in his hand.

_Yes, all right. SH_

John sighed in relief.

_But don’t be boring. SH_

He laughed.

_Wouldn’t dream of it._

* * *

“Dear god, you are _actually_ a maniac,” John told Sherlock as he stared at the jar of human eyeballs staring back at him.

“It was an experiment,” Sherlock said.

John carefully placed the jar back on top of the microwave where he’d found it and backed his way out of the kitchen to join Sherlock in the sitting room. He’d been at Sherlock’s flat less than five minutes and had already come across a multitude of questionable leftovers from previous experiments.

Other than the vaguely disturbing substances lying around, Sherlock’s flat was an eclectic mixture of knick knacks, books, and papers scattered over just about every surface. The walls were a dark forest green and the small fireplace that was currently crackling made the place feel cozy despite its unkempt nature. John wondered how Greg felt about Sherlock’s choice of decor, but figured he was probably used to it at this point.

“The bathroom is down the hall, the bedrooms are over there, and all of that nonsense,” Sherlock said, waving his hand around in arbitrary directions. He was dressed in a navy blue dressing gown that hung loosely off his shoulders and billowed around his ankles as he moved.

“Any toxic chemicals lying around in the loo that I should know about?” John asked.

“Not after the ‘bathtub incident,’ no.”

“Ah, good to hear.”

“Lestrade has always been a touch overdramatic.”

“I’m not sure I’d call reacting to toxic substances in the bath overdramatic.”

“Oh, you as well.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t enough to actually harm him. Now, I believe I told you I’d show you the results of that moss experiment.”

“Yeah, you did,” John said. “Where is it?”

“On my desk,” Sherlock said as he strode toward one of the bedrooms.

John quickly followed after him and stepped into Sherlock’s bedroom, a small space with a perfectly made bed in the corner and a desk overflowing with notes and test tubes to the left of it. The walls were decked out with various insect and plant diagrams, along with a large poster of the periodic table, and what looked to be a stag skull wearing a pair of safety goggles.

“As you can see, my hypothesis was correct; no surprise there,” Sherlock said, leaning over his desk and pointing to a collection of petri dishes. “I’ve written it all up in a blog post, if you’d like to see the diagrams.”

“You have a blog?”

“I have to share my findings somehow, John. There _are_ other people out there besides you and I who care about this sort of thing.”

“Hm. Maybe I should get one of those,” John mused. “I could write about my mad friend who keeps eyeballs in a jar.”

“It was an experiment,” Sherlock repeated.

John chuckled softly and looked up from the petri dishes to glance around the rest of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted what he assumed was a violin case sticking out from underneath the bed.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked, pointing to the instrument.

Sherlock turned to see what he was pointing at. “Ah. That would be my violin.”

“You play?”

“On occasion. Helps me think.”

“Do you take requests?”

“What?”

“Come on, I want to hear you play,” John said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “I bet you’re a bloody virtuoso or something.”

“Oh, I...I don’t know.” Sherlock avoided John’s eye and toyed with his hair.

“You don’t have to,” John said quickly. “I was just curious.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip in thought and stared at the instrument. “Well, I suppose I could play something,” he said, kneeling down to drag the case out from its hiding spot. “Not sure how familiar you are with classical, though.”

“Oi, I’m plenty familiar. I know all about…Bach.”

“Good try.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock pulled the case into the middle of the floor and opened it up. He carefully took out the bow and violin and got up to stand by the window near his desk. He rested the violin on his thigh and plucked a few strings to make sure it was in tune before tucking it under his chin.

Sherlock put the bow to the strings and began to play, and John suddenly felt as if the entire rest of the world had gone silent. The rich notes being pulled expertly from the strings seemed to echo impossibly within the small room, and John couldn’t seem to do anything but stare in quiet awe.

Sherlock’s eyes fell gently closed as he played, and the lines on his face softened, giving him an air of contentment that John had never seen in him before.

After another minute or so, Sherlock brought the piece to a close with one final stroke of the bow.

“That was brilliant,” John said quietly.

“I don’t normally play for people,” Sherlock murmured, lowering his violin and staring out the window.

“You should. It’s really beautiful.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said distractedly as he fiddled with the bow in his hand.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d say that Sherlock was blushing.

* * *

John was walking through campus with Sherlock, the both of them having just left their final lectures before the start of the winter holidays. They were on their way to John’s flat to warm themselves up with some tea, order a generous amount of takeaway, and watch some mindless television.

“Thank god that’s over,” John said, taking one last look at the building he wouldn’t be seeing for a good few weeks. “If I had to listen that man talk for another minute I think I’d have jumped out the bloody window. Good thing we’ve got a break now, yeah?”

“Hm. Speak for yourself,” Sherlock said, looking longingly at the buildings as they walked.

“Sorry, are you _lamenting_ not having to do any work for three weeks?”

“I have no access to the lab now,” Sherlock complained. “I tried breaking in once, but they caught me and Dr. Stapleton threatened to drop me from the course.”

“You tried what?”

“I swear that woman has it out to get me. Honestly, I melt one pair of goggles and suddenly she’s got a vendetta.”

“I think I’m with her on this one, Sherlock,” John laughed. He stopped briefly on the pavement to check his phone that had just gone off with a text. “Hey, Mike just texted,” he said. “He wants to know if we want to go to Hudson’s to get some coffee before we all leave for the break. Greg and Molly will be there, too.”

“Molly?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, yeah. Not sure if you know her or not, but she’s really nice. It’ll be fun,” John said.

Sherlock went uncharacteristically quiet for a moment before sighing dejectedly. “They’re your friends, John.”

“You know Mike and Greg, Sherlock. They’re your friends, too.”

“I know of Mike and I happen to live with Greg. They’re not actually my friends, and you know that.”

John frowned. He was tempted to disagree, but he supposed it wasn’t really up to him who Sherlock considered a friend.

“I’ll get you some of those honey scones you like,” he tried.

Sherlock nodded slowly, considering. “I’m listening.”

* * *

John stepped into the café with Sherlock trailing slightly behind him, immediately spotting his friends all huddled in a booth by the window.

John waved to Mrs. Hudson, who was busy helping a customer behind the counter, as he made his way over to the table.

“Hey,” John greeted, snapping them out of whatever conversation they’d been engrossed in. They had very kindly left the other side of the booth open for he and Sherlock, Molly sitting opposite them with Mike and Greg to her right.

John let Sherlock have the seat next to the window and slid in next to him.

“All right, John?” Mike asked.

“Hey, Mike. Greg,” John said, waving to get his attention.

“’Lo,” Greg mumbled, his mouth half full of a frosted donut.

“Oh, and, uh, Sherlock, this is Molly. Molly Hooper,” John said as he chucked off his heavy coat.

“Hello,” Molly said cheerily, her smile almost as bright as the pink scarf wrapped around her neck.

“Hooper,” Sherlock repeated, steepling his hands under his chin in thought. “Does your mother happen to work in the mortuary at St. Bart’s?”

Molly looked around as if slightly embarrassed. “Um, she does, actually. How did you know that?”

“I used to use their lab for experiments on occasion; one of the technicians owed me a favour. It’s an excellent facility, though I’m not technically allowed there anymore.”

“Why not?” John asked.

“Oh, I…no reason,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Oh my god,” Molly said. “You were the one who stole those feet, weren’t you?”

“I borrowed them.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded, turning to him in surprise.

“I gave them back, John.”

“Yeah, only after I found them in the bloody fridge,” Greg interjected.

“Christ.” John covered his face with his palm.

“Why the interest in cadavers?” Mike asked. “Not that I’m judging or anything, just wondering.”

“I’m considering a career in forensic science,” Sherlock said.

“So like, crime solving?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

Mike shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“So, um, anyone have any holiday plans?” Molly asked the group. “I’m just going home to see my parents.”

“Same here,” Mike said. “The usual boring family stuff.”

“I’ve got a wedding to go to,” Greg griped. “What about you, Sherlock? What’re you up to for the holidays?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

“You’re not going home to see your family?” Molly asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re insufferable.”

“Oh.”

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, confused. He’d thought for sure that Sherlock would have been going home for the holiday.

“John?” Greg asked, knocking John out of his thoughts. “Any crazy plans?”

“I think I’m just gonna stay here, actually. My family aren’t very big on Christmas.”

Greg nodded in understanding and took a sip of his coffee. “Well, at least there’s no more lectures for the foreseeable future, eh?”

“Cheers to that,” John said.

“Cheers is right!” Mike chimed in, motioning for a toast with his paper coffee cup.

John laughed and joined in, noticing Sherlock stifling a laugh out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

John stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to ward off the cold as he and Sherlock left the café and made their way down the pavement.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” John asked, elbowing Sherlock playfully.

“It was all right,” Sherlock said, evidence of a smile still lingering on his face.

“Oh, come off it, you like them. And I’m pretty sure they like you, too.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt. “I suppose so.”

“Come on, Sherlock, I don’t think they’re _all_ trying to get a free biochemistry tutor, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for reading! Hope you're all having a good day!


	6. Chapter 6

It was the third day of winter break, and so far John hadn’t done much other than catch up on all the sleep he’d missed out on during the term and finally use his laptop for something other than typing up papers.

He was currently sitting on the sofa, attempting to sit through an episode of one of the shows that Mike liked so much and absently nibbling on the small plate of biscuits that he’d called dinner.

Just as John had taken another bite of chocolate and cream, there was a frantic knocking on his door that had him coughing up his mouthful of food in surprise.

“One minute!” He shouted, quickly wiping the crumbs from his mouth and jumper.

John walked over to the door and peered through the peep hole, finding Sherlock to be standing on the other side. He had a somewhat crazed look in his eye and was practically bouncing up and down in impatience. John quickly opened the door, wondering if something might be wrong.

“Sherlock, what—“

“I need something to do!” Sherlock said, grabbing onto John’s shoulders and shaking him.

“What? Why? What’re you talking about?” John sputtered.

Sherlock huffed and let go of John. “I ran out of things to pour hydrochloric acid on, Gavin isn’t around to entertain me, and I’m _bored_ , John!” he announced, sweeping his way into the flat as if he owned the place and flopping dramatically onto the sofa.

“Please, come in,” John deadpanned. He closed the door and looked to the sofa where Sherlock had draped himself.

“How could you be bored?” John asked, crossing the room to stand next to Sherlock. “You said someone asked you to solve a case for them yesterday.”

“The case was Janine’s missing dog. I found said dog traipsing through shrubbery in the park. Case closed.” Sherlock pouted.

“Ah. Expecting the dog to be running an underground crime syndicate, were you?”

“He was a Norwich terrier called Norrie,” Sherlock said. “Even if dogs could commit crimes, I doubt he’d be behind any of them.”

“Right, well, I’m sorry the dog wasn’t the criminal mastermind you were hoping for.”

Sherlock groaned and sunk his head deeper into the cushion. “If I’m this bored on day three, I doubt I’ll make it to Christmas without losing my mind entirely.”

“What do you normally do over the holiday?”

“Attempt to survive my family as they bombard me with innumerable invasive questions and mind-numbing chitchat, mostly.”

“Oh. And you didn’t go home this year, so—“

“So I don’t even have the challenge of avoiding family members to keep me occupied.”

“You could…stay here, if you like,” John suggested without even thinking about it.

“What?”

“No, just- I mean, if having someone around will keep you from being bored, you could stay here. If you want,” John said, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“It might alleviate the occasional urge to set the nearest objects on fire, yes.”

“Good. That’s good. Hey, I’ll text Mike, see if he’ll lend you his room,” John said, getting out his phone.

“You really would let me stay with you?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Well, I am now mildly concerned about you burning your flat to the ground, so yes.” John took a seat on the coffee table and typed out a message to Mike.

“You should know that I tend to pace rather rapidly when I’m thinking and I’ve been told by various people throughout my life that I talk in my sleep. Would that bother you?”

“I don’t think so,” John said. He checked his phone to see that Mike had replied already. “Oh, Mike says the room’s all yours. And he also says ‘tell him not to blow anything up like he did in lab last week.’” John looked up at Sherlock. “Do I want to know?”

“No.”

“Right, looks like you’re stuck with me for the next few weeks, then.”

“Should be a step up from trying to experiment on the kitchen sponge.”

John chuckled and got up to move to the sofa, patting Sherlock’s ankle in a silent request for him to move it.

Once John sat down, Sherlock extended his feet again until his toes were just about touching John’s thigh. John startled slightly at the touch, but Sherlock appeared completely unaffected, his eyes already fixed on the television.  

John ignored the faint fluttering in his chest and leaned forward to grab a biscuit.

“Did you want any?” John asked, motioning to the plate. “Or I do have things with slightly more nutritional value, if you prefer.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said.

John picked up two biscuits and stretched to place them on Sherlock’s chest.

“How about we watch a film? I reckon a Bond movie,” John said.

“A what?” Sherlock asked as he munched on a biscuit.

“James Bond?”

Sherlock looked at him, nonplussed. “I don’t know who that is.”

“How can you not know?”

“There’s only room for so much in my head, John. I tend to only fill it with things that are important.”

“Well, this is important,” John declared. “Culturally,” he added pointedly before getting up to rummage through his DVD collection.

* * *

It was a little while later, and John and Sherlock were just about halfway through the film, which so far Sherlock seemed to be enjoying despite his frequent critiques of various plot points.

John was just relaxing even more into the sofa when he felt Sherlock shiver next to him and saw him cross his arms over his chest. He was clearly starting to feel somewhat chilly, which made John realize that he was actually feeling fairly cold himself.

“Sorry, the heating’s a bit shit in here,” John said. “Be right back.” He got up, albeit reluctantly, from his comfortable spot to go fetch a few warmer clothing items from his bedroom.

John returned shortly to the sitting room with a jumper in one hand and his oatmeal cardigan in the other.

“Here,” John said, handing the cardigan to Sherlock. “I did say you could borrow it.”

Sherlock smirked and reached out to take the proffered cardigan. He pulled it on over his dress shirt and promptly returned to his relaxed position on the sofa.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Any time.” John threw his heavier jumper on over his lighter weight one and sat back down.

They watched the film in companionable silence for another few minutes before Sherlock spoke, his voice quiet as if he weren’t sure whether or not he wanted John to hear.

“John, you would say that we’re…friends, yes?” he asked.

“What?” John pushed himself up and turned to face him. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“Nothing. Never mind,” Sherlock dismissed.

“Sherlock, where’s this coming from?”

“I said never mind, John.”

“Right. Okay.” John sighed and leaned back into the cushions. “But you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock murmured.

* * *

It was creeping up on midnight when the film finally came to end, Sherlock having paused it multiple times to make deductions about certain characters, and John then keeping it paused to tell Sherlock more about the history of the franchise. And Sherlock had either properly wore himself out making deductions, or John’s little history lessons were more boring than he’d thought, because Sherlock had ended up falling fast asleep during the last ten minutes of the movie and was now slumped up against John’s side.

John watched as the end credits rolled lazily up the television screen, but all he could focus on was the warm weight of Sherlock’s head resting on his shoulder. He almost wanted to keep letting the credits roll so that Sherlock would stay where he was for just a little bit longer, but he knew that sleeping in that position would only lead to a very sore neck in the morning, so he would have to wake him to up eventually.

John took one more look at Sherlock’s sleeping face before gently nudging his arm.

“Sherlock, wake up,” he whispered.

It took a few moments and a bit more nudging for Sherlock to begrudgingly open his eyes, which he promptly closed again.

“Sherlock, wake up,” John repeated.

“Don’t want to,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

“You have to go to bed.”

“You’re warm,” Sherlock reasoned, wrapping his hand weakly around John’s arm as if trying to hold him there.

John tried as hard as he could to quell the sudden pounding in his chest and heat rising in his cheeks.

“Yes, but I’m not a bed,” he countered.

Sherlock made an unintelligible groan in lieu of a response and tightened his grip on John’s arm.

For a moment, John felt as if he were back at the bar the night he met Sherlock, when he had held onto John in the taxi and hadn’t seemed to want to let him go. It almost seemed as if the only time Sherlock expressed a need for affection was when his defenses were down, and John wondered just how often Sherlock craved this sort of touch, and if he ever even admitted to himself that it was something that he wanted.

Shaking himself from that line of thought, John figured that if Sherlock wasn’t going to get up any time soon, John would just have to give him a little push.

“Come on, up you get,” John said, picking up Sherlock’s arm and wrapping it around his shoulder.

Sherlock grunted in protest but let John pick him up off the sofa nonetheless. John half-carried the half-asleep Sherlock all the way down the hall to Mike’s room and deposited him down onto the bed.

Seeing as how Sherlock was practically asleep again already and likely wasn’t planning on getting under the covers, John went back out to the sitting room to grab the blanket that was hung over the sofa and brought it back to the bedroom. He draped it over Sherlock, making sure that he was properly tucked in to hopefully keep the slight chill of the flat at bay.

John gave Sherlock’s shoulder a light squeeze before backing away. He couldn’t help but stay for just a few moments longer, admiring the way the moonlight filtered through the slats in the window and illuminated Sherlock’s sleeping face.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

* * *

John awoke the next morning with a quiet unease sitting in his chest. He stared blankly at the fabric of his pillowcase and thought back to last night, wondering if he’d somehow crossed a line somewhere, if he’d made Sherlock uncomfortable at all. He knew that it likely wasn’t rational, though; Sherlock couldn’t actually read his mind, not to mention the fact that he was barely conscious for the latter half of the night.

Attempting to shake the unwelcome nerves, John threw off his duvet and practically jumped out of bed. He quickly changed out of his pyjamas, stopped off at the loo, and headed into the sitting room to see if Sherlock was up. Knowing him, John thought, he probably would’ve already turned the kitchen into a makeshift lab.

John stepped into the sitting room, ready to greet whatever mad venture Sherlock was up to, but was surprised to find the room empty. He scratched his head in thought and figured Sherlock must still be asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, John set about making himself a much needed cup of tea.

Another half an hour had passed with not a peep from Sherlock, and John’s anxieties about the previous night were starting to get the better of him. Thinking that he’d simply go and ask Sherlock if he’d like some tea or breakfast just to make sure that he was okay, John walked down the hall to the bedroom. He lifted his fist to knock, but found the door to be already opened slightly.  

“Sherlock?” John called. After hearing no response, he slowly pushed open the door.

Upon opening the door, John was met with the sight of an empty, perfectly made bed, with his cardigan folded neatly on top of the sheets.

John’s heart sunk in his chest at the sight. Sherlock must have left while John was still sleeping. Perhaps Sherlock could read minds, after all.

Swallowing hard, John left the room and made a beeline for his phone with the intent of texting Sherlock to ask him where he was or if he was okay, when suddenly he heard the sound of someone coming in to his flat.

John rushed to the door to see who it was and immediately let out a huge sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock stepping back inside, large duffle bag in hand.

“Oh, there you are,” John said, still panting after his momentary panic.

“John,” Sherlock said, looking at him suspiciously. “You’re rather flustered for half-eight in the morning.”

“Uh, yeah, sleeping really…takes it out of me. Where’d you go?” John asked.

“To get my things, obviously. I do need at least one extra shirt to get me through the remainder of the holiday.”

“Oh, right. ‘Course.” John laughed nervously and walked over to the kitchen. “Um, how about I make some breakfast? We’ve got toast or...toast.”

“No time for that, John. We’ve got a very important job to do this morning,” Sherlock said.

“We?”

“Yes, and we need to head out as soon possible.” Sherlock snatched John’s coat off the back of the door and tossed it to him.

“Sorry, what’re we doing?”

“Getting Mrs. Hudson’s Christmas present.”

* * *

“Tell me again why we needed to do this as soon as possible,” John said as he followed Sherlock on their way to the first shop he wanted to check.

“Because, John, Christmas is only one week away and I am not about to deal with crowds of last minute shoppers or be forced to stand in a queue listening to impatient huffing and wailing toddlers for three hours,” Sherlock said.

“Ah, got it. Could it possibly have waited until after breakfast, though?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly and continued walking.

They spent a few hours browsing various shops in search of the perfect gift for Mrs. Hudson, with Sherlock claiming that he wasn’t about to just get her a scented candle and call it a day.

In the end, Sherlock had picked up a lovely set of teacups and saucers for Mrs. Hudson, while John had gotten her a simple knitted tea cozy. John didn’t know her very well, but Sherlock had assured him that she would appreciate it.

Sherlock and John had spent almost the entire day together, and Sherlock hadn’t acted any different than usual, making all of John’s anxieties from earlier that morning seem to fade away, and he ended the night feeling more relaxed and content than he had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Janine would definitely have a cute little dog like that and Sherlock would lowkey want to steal him lol. Thanks so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Over the course of the next week, Sherlock and John had made their way through three more Bond movies, stopped by the café to give Mrs. Hudson her gifts, and attempted to a play a board game or two, which resulted in John finding out that Sherlock was in fact quite the sore loser. John had also decided to go out and get a gift for Sherlock, which had been something of a challenge to keep him from seeing or deducing.

It was now the night of Christmas Eve, and Sherlock was flopped on the sofa having just finished playing a round of Christmas songs on his violin, per John’s request, while John was stood at the kitchen counter fixing himself a cup of tea.  

“I hope you enjoyed that, because I am not playing another one of those ridiculous songs for at least the next century,” Sherlock said.

“Come on, Sherlock, where’s your Christmas spirit?” John teased as he rifled through the cupboard for the box of tea.

“I believe I was born without it.”

John laughed. “Christ, you must’ve been a right bundle of joy as a kid around this time of year.”

“Yes, my parents weren’t exactly pleased with my disinterest in the holiday considering their rather large obsession with it.”

“Wish I’d been around for _your_ Christmas parties,” John joked as he poured the hot water into his mug. “My family were never really big on Christmas.”

“That’s what you said at the café,” Sherlock said.

“Was it?”

“You said that was why you were staying here for the holiday, which was obviously a lie.”

“Of course it was,” John scoffed. “I wasn’t exactly going to announce to my friends that my family are disgusted and ashamed of both me and my sister and don’t want anything to do with us, was I?” John stopped in his tea preparation when he realized how much he’d raised his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly.

John gripped the edge of the counter and took a deep breath. “It’s fine. It’s not like I want to be around them, anyway.”

“Hm. My parents just want me to turn into my brother,” Sherlock admitted.

“How do you mean?”

“They wanted me to go to Oxford, get a big important job like he did, do big important things all day, but of course I didn’t want to. They’ve never really gotten over it.”

“Is that why you didn’t go home?”

“Well, it’s not really very festive, being the family disappointment, though I do enjoy the mince pies.”

“How can your parents possibly think you’re a disappointment?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Sherlock said.

John bit the inside of his cheek and finished up preparing his tea.

“So, mince pies, you said?” John picked up his mug and carefully took it into the sitting room before settling down on the other end of the sofa. “Tell me, what other sorts of things does your family usually do for Christmas?”

“Oh, just about every overdone, sickly sweet tradition you can imagine. Hanging small, breakable things on tree branches, covering every available surface in tinsel, decorating anthropomorphic biscuits made of gingerbread, the whole bit.”

“Sounds fun to me,” John said.

“That’s good; you can decorate the tree with Mycroft next year.”

John laughed and took a sip of his tea. “That’d be a sight.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see one of his posh three-piece suits covered in glitter.”

“You could plop a star on his head and then he’d _be_ the Christmas tree.”

Sherlock let out a full-bodied laugh at that, his face lighting up in a way John hadn’t seen before. John took a moment to appreciate the sight, being careful not to let his gaze linger too long.

The flat was silent for a few minutes as their laughter died down and John finished up his tea.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night, actually,” John said, patting Sherlock’s ankle before getting up from the sofa. He placed his mug in the sink and walked over to the hallway. “Leave some biscuits out for Father Christmas, yeah?”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock said. “It’s the reindeer that deserve a treat, lugging that sleigh around all night.”

“Right.” John chuckled. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

The next morning, John woke to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the song in his sleepy haze, but after a moment or two of listening closer, he recognized it as one of the Christmas songs Sherlock had played the night before.

John smiled to himself and shuffled out of bed. He quietly padded down the hall and stopped at the entrance to the sitting room, watching as Sherlock played by the window.

“Thought you didn’t like those songs,” John said after Sherlock had finished playing.

“I don’t. Your ‘Christmas spirit’ nonsense must be rubbing off on me,” Sherlock said.

John walked over to join him by the window.

“Before you know it you’ll be singing carols at people’s doorsteps,” he said.

“Don’t push it.”

“Right.”

“Oh and, er, happy Christmas, and all that,” Sherlock said.

“And all that to you, too,” John quipped. “Oh! Before I forget,” he said, rushing back to his bedroom.

John knelt down on the floor and reached his arm under his bed. He pulled out a small box that was wrapped in brown paper and tied up, somewhat messily, with string.

John brought the box back out to the sitting room and held it out to Sherlock.

“Here. I, er, I got something for you. I know we didn’t say anything about getting gifts or any of that but I just…thought it might be nice.”

Sherlock looked momentarily lost for words before setting down his violin and accepting the box.

“Thank you,” he said.

“And no deducing what it is,” John said.

“Shame, I was so close.”

“Just open it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged nonetheless, carefully unwrapping his gift. He slowly opened up the box and pulled out a soft, navy blue scarf.

“To keep you warm. You know, so you don’t have to keep borrowing my cardigan,” John teased.

“Pity, I was beginning to like that particular shade of oatmeal.”

“Ha bloody ha,” John said. “Well? What d’you think? I know it’s not cashmere or anything.”

Sherlock put the scarf around his neck and tied it. “I like it,” he said.

“Good. That’s good.” John smiled at him.

“Oh, and, um…” Sherlock trailed off as he crossed the room and began rooting around under the sofa cushions. He retrieved a small gift bag and handed it to John. “For you, as well.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“Touché,” John said, pulling out a somewhat heavy object wrapped in tissue paper. He unwrapped the paper to find a stainless steel thermos.

“So you can take your rapidly growing tea addiction with you,” Sherlock said.

“I do not have a tea addiction,” John argued. “Bloody well might do now, though.”

“Dear lord,” Sherlock mumbled.

* * *

After exchanging their gifts, Sherlock and John had sat down in front of the telly with a breakfast of toast and jam and watched a bit of whatever Christmas film had happened to be on, much to Sherlock’s chagrin.

They were now standing at the kitchen table, covered almost entirely in flour as they attempted to make a batch of gingerbread men. John had insisted that they at least try to make them, claiming that maybe it’d actually be fun this time considering it wasn’t Sherlock’s family he was baking with.

“That’s not a gingerbread man,” John said, pointing to whatever it was that Sherlock had crafted out of the dough.

“It’s not supposed to be. It’s a beaker,” Sherlock clarified.

“A beaker? What, are you making a gingerbread laboratory?”

“I was, until you broke my concentration.”

“Oh, well, my apologies. I’m sure you’ve got lots of important experiments to do on icing sugar.”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said, scooping up a small handful of icing sugar and tossing it onto John’s face.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, immediately scrambling to get the mess off of his cheeks and nose.

“I was testing whether or not it’d stick to your face,” Sherlock reasoned.

“Oh you were, were you? Then I guess you won’t mind if I test the same hypothesis on you,” John said before picking up his own handful of sugar and flinging it onto Sherlock’s face as well.

“John!” Sherlock yelled. “It’s in my eyes!” he complained, shutting his eyes tightly and rubbing frantically at them.

“All right, all right,” John said. He took Sherlock by the elbows and gently steered him towards the sink. “Just hold still, you big baby.”

John quickly wet a nearby tea towel and held the side of Sherlock’s face in one hand to keep him still. As John carefully wiped away the remaining sugar, he suddenly couldn’t help but notice the sheer warmth of Sherlock’s skin beneath his palm, the soft brush of his hair as it curled around his fingers, the shape of his lips that were even more unique up close.

By the time John had cleared away most of the mess, he could have sworn that his heart was pounding ten times louder in his chest. He finished up with one last cursory sweep of the towel before setting it back down on the counter.

“There, all done,” John said, staring up at Sherlock who somehow seemed to be standing even closer.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, holding John’s gaze. John could have sworn that he saw Sherlock’s eyes flicker down to his lips, but it happened so quickly that it could very well have been his imagination.

“Well, these aren’t gonna finish decorating themselves.” John motioned to the slightly misshapen biscuits scattered across the table.

“No, I suppose not.” Sherlock looked as if he were considering something before turning back to the task at hand.

* * *

A few hours and one gingerbread laboratory later, John and Sherlock were sat at the table, surrounded by the aftermath of their baking disaster that they’d been much too lazy to properly tidy up.

John had scraped together a makeshift Christmas dinner from a box of pasta, some leftover takeaway, and a bag of frozen vegetables he’d had tucked away in the freezer. Overall it’d been a surprisingly satisfying meal for what it was, and the gingerbread men, although a bit wonky, still tasted just as good.

“I have to admit,” John said, “aside from being unjustly hit in the face with icing sugar—“

“I still maintain that you started it,” Sherlock interjected.

“Aside from that,” John continued, “today has honestly been one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a long time, if ever.”

“And I didn’t have to speak a single word to my family, so the same goes for me, as well.”

“You didn’t phone Mycroft to wish him a happy Christmas?” John asked.

“Did you phone Harry?” Sherlock countered.

“I didn’t, actually,” John admitted. “Maybe I should. It’s been ages since I’ve talked to her. And I do miss her.”

“Perhaps you should call her, then.”

“I will, but only if you call Mycroft.”

“John, no, that’s not fair,” Sherlock protested.

“What? I’m sure he’d love to hear from you,” John said, his voice teasing.

“John.”

“He probably misses you.”

“John.”

“In fact, he’s probably just sitting all alone by the fire, wondering if you’ll call—“

“Yes, all right. I will stomach a phone call with my brother if you agree to talk to your sister.”

“I was going to anyway, but now you’ve got to call Mycroft.”

“John!”

John laughed good-naturedly and scooted back in his chair, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a quick pat as he got up.

“Well, I suppose I’ve got a phone call to make. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John walked slowly back into his room and switched on the small lamp on his bedside table before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He took his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through to Harry’s name in his contacts, his fingers hovering hesitantly over the button before pressing it.

The line rang out a few times, making John wonder if she was going to answer at all before she finally picked up.

“Hey, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how hard it was to not say "gingerbeaker" lol. Hope you enjoyed! ^^


	8. Chapter 8

John’s phone call with his sister had gone over surprisingly well. It hadn’t been great, and they still had a lot to work through, but Harry had managed to talk to him without nearly as many expletives as usual, which was, frankly, more than John could have hoped for.

The last two weeks of the break had been filled with binge-watching films, solving a few small cases, and performing a variety of makeshift experiments on whatever Sherlock could find lying around the flat.

The time seemed to fly by, and before John knew it, he was back at the library with Sherlock, reluctantly revising for exams.

“I’m never gonna remember all this,” John sighed as he hung his head over the medical textbook in front of him.

Sherlock moved closer and peered over his shoulder at the text. “Not all of it, no.”

John looked up at him. “Very helpful.”

“I’m only saying that it’s statistically unlikely that you would remember exactly one hundred percent of the information needed for the exam.”

“Still not helpful.”

“It was worth a try,” Sherlock mumbled as he turned his attention back to his laptop.

John laughed under his breath, feeling his mood lighten despite the heavy workload still ahead of him.

* * *

John and Sherlock stepped out of the warmth of the library and into the harsh winter air, their breath falling from their mouths like clouds of smoke. As they walked, the light of the lampposts that followed them felt familiar and safe, but John felt as if his entire body were alight with apprehension.

As he and Sherlock had worked, John hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how important Sherlock had become to him over the past few months, about how alone he’d felt before he met him. John had only recently come to terms with his identity, having doubted that he’d ever be comfortable enough with himself to admit when he had feelings for someone. But after spending the last few weeks with Sherlock, all of those doubts and fears had seemed to fall away without him even noticing.

Now John was walking with shaking hands stuffed into his pockets, hoping that Sherlock couldn’t hear how heavily he was breathing.

“You have something you want to ask me,” Sherlock stated.

“Am I that obvious?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John brought a hand up to rub nervously at the back of his neck and let out a long, shaky breath.

“Listen, um, I know you said this sort of stuff isn’t really your area, but I was wondering if you’d maybe like to go get a coffee sometime. As a…as a date.”

The silence that followed John’s words was painfully palpable, Sherlock’s face entirely unreadable until he spoke.

“I suppose that would be tolerable,” he said, trying to conceal a smile.

John felt as if every ounce of worry rushed out of his lungs in one relieved sigh.

“Good, yeah, that’s good,” he rambled. “How about tomorrow at Hudson’s?”

“Yes, I would like that.”

* * *

John walked out of his psych lecture the next day unable to keep the smile off his face. He kept his grin as he walked to the rugby pitch where he and Sherlock had agreed to meet before walking to Hudson’s together.

John ran his hand along the brick wall as he walked, the rugby field just around the corner. As he grew closer, however, he could hear muffled voices, one of which was clearly Sherlock’s. John slowed his step and leaned in closer to the wall, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that the other voice belonged to Sebastian.   

“Came down to have another look, did you?” John heard Seb sneer.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself; I’m not here for you,” Sherlock said.

“Is that right? So standing around like a creep is a hobby of yours?”

“Piss off, Sebastian.”

“No way. I’m not going anywhere until you get your crazy arse off the field.”

“Ooh, a bit touchy today, are we? What’s the matter, did daddy cut you off?”

John heard the sudden crack of bone on bone and immediately ran around the corner to see Sherlock on the ground holding his hand to his nose while Seb stood over him with a still curled fist. John didn’t even think as he rushed in and tackled Seb to the ground before he could land another punch.

John had Seb’s arms locked uncomfortably behind his back in no time.

“You listen here, you slimy little shit,” John growled. “If you ever come near Sherlock again, I will personally see to it that your life is a living nightmare, understood?”

“Get off me!” Seb shouted.

“Is that understood?” John tightened his grip.

“All right, all right, now get off!” John released his hold on him and Seb scrambled to push himself off the ground. He brushed himself off and stared daggers in Sherlock’s direction.

“I said leave off, Seb,” John warned.

Seb wrinkled his nose in distaste before stomping off back down the field, muttering under his breath as he went.

John ran over to where Sherlock was still sitting up against the wall, his hand painted with splotches of red from the blood steadily dripping from his nose.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” John said, holding out a hand to him. “We’ll go back to mine and get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he completely ignored John’s outstretched hand as he got up and walked away.  

John closed his eyes and clenched his fist before following behind him.

* * *

Sherlock refused to slow down the entire walk back to John’s flat. No matter how many times John called out to him, no matter how much John tugged on his sleeve or tried to talk to him, he simply would not let up.

When John opened the door to his flat, Sherlock pushed past him and rushed up the stairs without so much as looking at him. John could feel the anger steadily coursing through his veins as he ran up the stairs after Sherlock.

“What the hell is your problem?” John snapped as he entered the flat.

“That was completely unnecessary,” Sherlock fumed, tugging on the ends of his hair in frustration.

“What was?”

“You, coming to my rescue.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, that was completely, wholly unnecessary. I was perfectly fine,” Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth.

“Perfectly fine, my arse. You were on the ground having just been clocked in the face.”

“Yes, and I would’ve been entirely capable of defending myself on my own. For god’s sake, John, I don’t need you to protect me!”

“Yeah, because god forbid I care about your wellbeing, right?”

“Oh, of course you _care_ ,” Sherlock sneered. “That’s all you can do, isn’t it? All you do is take care of other people so that you can feel better about yourself, yes? To try to convince yourself that you’re nothing like your father? To raise your otherwise declining self-esteem? I’m not an idiot, John; I know you only befriended me because you saw me as something that needed to be fixed, but I am not your patient, or your project, or your charity case and I would very much appreciate it if you _left me alone_.”

John felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. He stared unseeingly at Sherlock, feeling the pinpricks of tears forming in his eyes.

John looked away and nodded curtly. “Right,” he said, his voice ragged. “Well, I’m not an idiot either, Sherlock. And I know you only said those things to upset me so that I’d storm off and leave you alone. But I’m not doing that. Because what I just heard you say is that you think I only wanted to be your friend so that I could fix you. But you’re wrong.” John swallowed hard and steeled himself before facing Sherlock again. “I wanted to be your friend because I _liked_ you. And yet _your_ self-esteem is so low that you can’t even believe that.”

John watched as the expression on Sherlock’s face slowly morphed from anger to confusion. His eyes fell to the floor and his mouth hung slightly open as he searched for something to say. The aching silence stretched on, and after another few moments that felt like years, John couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sod it; I need some air.” John shook his head, mentally chastising himself for giving Sherlock the reaction that he wanted, but he simply couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer.

John clambered back down the stairs of his flat and onto the steps outside. He sat down on the cold concrete and rested his head up against the metal railing.

Not long after John sat down, he heard Sherlock’s footfalls as he slowly made his way down the stairs. He felt Sherlock sit down next to him but made no move to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.

John lifted his head up and turned to Sherlock. “All this time…you thought I was just, what, pitying you?”

“It was the only logical explanation.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I found your company enjoyable.” Sherlock frowned. “I suppose I didn’t want it to end.”

“Even though you thought I was only being your friend so I could…fix you?”

“I’ll admit there was a part of me that hoped that wasn’t the case. It seems I am prone to occasional bouts of sentiment, after all.”

John smirked. “Well, the sentimental side of you was right. You should listen to it more often.”

“Perhaps.”

John smiled at Sherlock, noticing the angry red patch on his cheek and the dried blood still clinging to his skin.

“We should probably get you cleaned up and put some ice on that,” John said. “And then we can go and get that coffee. If you still want to, that is.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

* * *

After Sherlock had cleaned off his face and downed a few painkillers, John made sure that he sat down with a bag of frozen peas on his cheek at least until the swelling went down. It was a good hour or so before they finally left for the café, having to stop off at Sherlock’s flat so that he could change out of his bloodied shirt and mud-stained trousers.

John had changed his outfit as well, deciding to go for a nice navy blue jumper with a maroon button-up underneath, and a slightly tattered pair of dress shoes that looked much better in comparison to his scuffed up trainers.

The sun was just beginning to set when they arrived at the café. They sat down across from each other in their familiar booth by the window before John volunteered to go and order for them.

As John stood in line, he couldn’t seem to stop glancing over his shoulder at the table, still not quite believing that Sherlock was there with him.

Once everything was ordered and ready, John made his way back to their booth and set everything on the table before sitting back down.

“One coffee, one Earl Grey, and two honey scones,” John said, placing Sherlock’s mug in front of him. “Black, two sugars, yeah?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Right, good. That’s good.” John said. He brushed his fingers quickly through his hair and tugged at his jumper, readjusting the shirt underneath a few times as well before finally settling.

“You’re nervous,” Sherlock stated.

“Could you tell?” John quipped. “Sorry. I haven’t been on a proper date in ages.”

“And I’ve never been on one at all, so surely you’re the one with the expertise here.”

“You’d think so.” John laughed nervously. “You sure you’re all right with…all this?”

“Have you ever known me to do something I don’t want to do?”

John thought for a moment. “Yeah, no. God, no.”

“Then I think we’re fine, John.”

John held back a reply when he saw Mrs. Hudson making her way over out of the corner of his eye.

“Sherlock!” she greeted warmly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in. “It’s not like you to be here so late. And what’s happened to your face, young man?” she asked, gesturing to the forming bruise underneath his eye.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson frowned and turned to John. “John, you’ll tell me. What’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“Uh, just a little…disagreement with someone at uni. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, you boys let me know if someone’s giving you trouble, I’ll sort them right out.”

“How—“

“Don’t ask, John,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Right. Um, thank you, Mrs. H.”

“Anytime, dears. I’ll just leave you two to enjoy your night now,” she said, giving them a wink for good measure before heading back behind the counter.

* * *

It was nearly closing time by the time Sherlock and John left the café. They had spent the last few hours talking and laughing in between bites of scone and sips of coffee. John had shared his most embarrassing dating experiences while Sherlock had shared his dreams of being a pirate that he’d had as a child. John hadn’t realized how much time had passed until Mrs. Hudson was practically shooing them out the door.

John had to admit that he may have been walking just a hair too close to Sherlock as they made their way back to Sherlock’s flat, their arms brushing together every few steps. The harsh winter air stung John’s cheeks and ears as he walked, and he attempted to bury his face as deeply into his coat collar as he could, but shivers continued to wrack his frame nonetheless.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock huffed. He stopped to untie the scarf around his neck, the one John had gotten him for Christmas. “Here,” he said, holding it out to John.

“What?” John asked, looking at the garment as if he weren’t sure what it was for.

“You’re shivering; it’s annoying,” Sherlock said in explanation.

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” John insisted.

Sherlock shot him a look. “Humour me.”

John sighed in acquiescence. “All right, all right,” he said. “Thank you.”

John reached out to take the scarf from Sherlock’s hold, but was surprised when instead of handing it to him, Sherlock stepped into his space and wrapped the scarf around his neck himself. All of the air seemed to escape John’s lungs at once as he felt Sherlock’s fingers deftly adjusting the garment around him, felt the warmth practically radiating off of him.

Just when it seemed that Sherlock was finished properly tucking John in, his fingers stopped on the scarf, shaking ever so slightly in quiet uncertainty. Sherlock looked up at John, a question in his eyes that John could tell he didn’t quite know how to ask, but John answered it for him by wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s lapels and slowly pulling him in close.

“Is this okay?” John asked, their lips a hair’s width apart.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed.

John let his eyes fall closed and let his lips find Sherlock’s as he pressed in closer.

The first touch of Sherlock’s lips on his own was firm but chaste, a gentle pressure that lingered for a moment before lifting away. Sherlock’s fingers tightened around the scarf in his hands and he angled his head to recapture John’s mouth, pressing the slightest bit more firmly. John responded in kind by tightening his grip on Sherlock’s coat and bringing him in closer to plant one last slow kiss on his lips. He opened his eyes and gently backed away.

“Did I do it right?” Sherlock asked, his voice soft and his cheeks flushed a rosy pink.

John beamed at him. “God, yes.”

* * *

It was a week later, and John, Sherlock, Mike, Greg, and Molly were all out at the bar, having a drink to celebrate the end of exams. They were all crowded around the bar as they took turns ordering another round of drinks.

“Another pint, John?” Mike asked.

“No thanks, mate. I’d really rather not be sick in the morning,” John said. He’d only had two drinks so far, but the company of his friends and the joy of exams being over seemed to be more than enough of a natural buzz.

Mike shook his head. “Bloody med students; you’re no fun.”

“Mike, _you’re_ a med student.”

“Oh yeah…” Mike trailed off, looking mildly confused.

“I’m not a med student; I’ll have another,” Greg interjected.

“Same here!” Molly piped in.

John turned to Sherlock who was leaning back against the bar, tapping away on his phone.

“You okay?” John asked. Sherlock had chosen not to drink at all, the memory of the last time he’d had too much still fresh in his mind.

Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked to everyone around him, all of them laughing and enjoying themselves, before looking to John.

“Yes,” he said.

John took his hand and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “What do you think, then?” He gestured to the dance floor. “D’you want to dance?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Sherlock said.

“C’mon, you told me you used to do ballet.”

“That’s not exactly applicable here, John.”

“I know you like to dance, Sherlock. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Sherlock smiled. “If you insist.”

John took Sherlock by the hand and pulled him onto the dance floor, earning a few winks from his friends as he went.

Once they were properly engulfed in the crowd and wrapped their arms around each other, the music blaring from the speakers seemed like nothing but muffled noise, and the people around them seemed like nothing but blurs of colour as they danced.

They swayed back and forth, beautifully lost in the sea of people, and John thought back to the night he first met Sherlock, on the very same dance floor, and how much his life had changed since then. He had resigned himself to a life at university filled with nothing but his studies and his small group of friends, never imagining he’d be comfortable enough with himself let alone another person to ever be a part of something that meant so much.

His eyes brimming with tears of happiness that he didn’t think he’d find, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do ballet on the dance floor lol. But anyway, I really hope you guys enjoyed this, it was a bit different for me so I was a little unsure about it, but thank you so much for reading and for leaving such lovely comments, and thank you again to notjustamumj for kindly looking this over for me! *hugs you all*


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